Quiet conversations

Seven or eight years ago, about the time our first son Ethan was born, I decided to consciously limit the news media information that I was digesting on a daily basis. I was finding that reading national news was beginning to depress me, and I figured that if I really needed to know something, my friends would tell me.

That might seem to be a strange action for someone who earns part of their living in media communications, but I thought my mental health was worth it. We live in a world now where we are bombarded with information from every corner, even as we try to avoid it.

Adora’s eyes opened wide on Friday when a news alert popped up on her phone. She was standing in our kitchen, a far-away friend over for a short visit. Police: 20 children among 26 victims of Connecticut school shooting.

I went skiing late that afternoon. It was Friday, there was powder, and I needed to decompress from a long week. My wife was running errands with Ethan and Myles — and while the tragedy certainly gnawed at me, the deep snow covered up the emotions for a bit.

On the drive down the mountain road, I cautiously clicked on the evening news and it only took a few seconds before tears started to well. The reporter was talking about children listening to the news reports — how the repeated, cycling news might even lead some kids to believe that the tragedy was happening again and again.

Well, it is. It has. Mass shootings in Oregon, Wisconsin, Colorado. I agree, Mr. President. We cannot accept events like this as routine.

Watching the news with Ethan at home was out of the question, and frankly I didn’t have the emotional fortitude anyway. What else did I need to know? We went to a Christmas party, and I fell asleep snuggled with him in bed.

But on Sunday evening, when I turned on the New England Patriots — it’s fun when the home team is playing — the game cut away to the president’s speech and we left it on. Lyndsay was nursing Myles on the couch next to Ethan while I cooked dinner.

We gather here in memory of 20 beautiful children and six remarkable adults. They lost their lives in a school that could have been any school in a quiet town full of good and decent people that could be any town in America.

Ethan looked up from the marble puzzle he was playing.

“How young were the kids?”

I paused. “Pretty young.”

“Like my age?”

“Yes. Some of them.”

Ethan went back to his game.

He looked up again. “Did it happen in Montana?”

“No. It didn’t happen here.”

When President Obama mentioned that one child had tried to encourage a teacher by saying, “I know karate, so it’s OK; I’ll lead the way out,” Ethan joked with us and said that he knew karate too.

The president went on. You know, someone once described the joy and anxiety of parenthood as the equivalent of having your heart outside of your body all the time, walking around.

Later in the speech, Ethan was struck by some familiar names when the president read the list of the school children.

Charlotte, Daniel, Olivia, Josephine, Ana, Dylan, Madeline, Catherine, Chase.

“Chase is one of my friends.”

Jesse, James, Grace, Emilie, Jack, Noah, Caroline, Jessica, Benjamin, Avielle, Allison.

“Jessica — she’s in my class.”

“Don’t worry. Those weren’t your friends.”

Ethan went back to playing his game.

Lyndsay said to me later: Innocence is a beautiful and powerful thing. Indeed.

On Monday, sitting at my desk, I wondered whether Ethan’s teacher would discuss the tragedy at all, or if the kids were asking questions. So I emailed her.

Mrs. Dowoliby wrote back that “it wasn’t easy walking into school, but once the kids arrived, it was easier. We as adults rely on them as much as they rely on us.”

“I had to wait for signs or quiet conversations between kids to judge whether or not I would say anything. There were indeed some quiet conversations, so I said a few things — just that they are safe and that we have safety precautions in place in our school. I didn’t want to dwell too much on it and the kids left for recess without having any questions.”

Tears surfaced again that afternoon when I picked up Ethan at school, half-staff flags flying. Usually it takes me many minutes to find him — he’s off playing football or trying new tricks on the jungle gym amidst the throng of children. And today I walked past him. He was standing near the gate.

“Daddy!” he said. “Where were you looking?”

“I was looking for you.”

— Brian Schott lives in Whitefish